


The Zen of Archery

by mammal



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU after original Avengers movie, M/M, seriously I started this ages ago
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7360558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mammal/pseuds/mammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is always looking for new ways to meditate. Maybe Clint can help with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started my notes on this after the very first ensemble Avengers movie. I started writing it maybe a year later, and come back to it every so often. I have more notes, maybe for another 4-6 chapters, and #amwriting -- but I don't know how racy I will actually manage to get.
> 
> BTW, this story is HELLA out of date with the current MCU. Back to a simpler time...
> 
> Author knows nothing about archery and archery training except through pop culture exposure, and chose to make up this training routine to suit story needs rather than research the correct methods.
> 
> Author does not hate capers.

Clint was lost in the final, most relaxing part of his daily practice – loosing arrow after arrow into a single, large target. His speed was almost leisurely, for him. He was lazily spiraling the arrows' strike points in toward the center, about one per second, and as completely calm and focused as he ever got on the job or off. No amount of relaxation, however, could make him unaware of his surroundings, so he knew he was being watched even before he heard the slight shuffle of feet. 

“What's up, Doc?” he quipped as the last two arrows completed the design. Only then did Clint turn his head and look at the man watching him. Bruce ducked his head in a way that could be interpreted as 'sheepish,' but might also mean he'd heard that from him one too many times, Clint wasn't sure. At any rate, he didn't appear outright irritated, so Clint could probably keep using it a while longer. He kind of liked having his own little greeting for the quiet doctor; it almost felt as if they could be friends. Not just teammates, but the kind of friends that you could get to know better, get close with.

“That's a... nice spiral you got there,” Bruce said with a half-smile. “Very mathematically correct.” His voice was teasing, but not in a way that Clint thought sounded mean. Maybe just... surprised (pleased?) that he could do something math-y. 

“Well, it's not so much mathematical as just what looked right,” Clint shrugged. “My math education didn't really get that far into the 'straight lines' areas, let alone curves.” He gestured with his bow – “I have to be able to figure curvature and shit for distance shooting, but it's all just estimation.” 

Bruce huffed a little laugh at that. “Well, from here it looks as if your 'estimation' is probably more precise than Tony could manage with a laser and help from JARVIS!” He rolled his eyes slightly upwards. “Um, no offense meant, JARVIS.”

“None taken, Dr. Banner. I concur with your estimation of Sir's relative skills as compared with Agent Barton's.”

Clint threw his head back and barked a laugh. “Let's keep that idea between the three of us, okay? Just for the sake of not listening to Tony bitch about it for days!” He started plucking his arrows out of the target, which he had summoned up to the front of the room with a nearby toggle. His grin remained on his face while he worked. The compliment kept replaying in the back of his mind, and he tried to keep himself from reading more into it than he should.

Bruce threw his hands up, outright laughing now. “He's certainly not going to hear it from me!” He started to reach out to help with the arrows, then snatched his hand back, his brow furrowing. “Um... can I, Hawkeye? Or will I damage them?”

“Naw, they're sturdy – have at it, Doc. And maybe call me Clint?”

Bruce's tiny, sideways smile returned. “Well, you could call me Bruce, you know.” He efficiently pulled arrows and gently added them to the tall basket where Clint was placing them, point down. 

Clint squinted, considering the offer. “But it's not like I'm calling you by your work name, right? 'Hawkeye' is for work and 'Clint' or 'Barton' is for off-hours.” He shrugged apologetically. “I mean, the Other Guy has a name, but it's not _your_ name. So I guess in a way 'Doc' _is_ sort of your work name, but I wasn't thinking of it like that. I use it more like a pet name.” Seeing Bruce's eyebrows shoot upward, he backpedaled fast. “I mean like a... a buddy name! Like, casual and... casual and friendly! Not... not a... well, anyway.”

As Clint's awkward explanation trailed off, Bruce kept his eyebrows raised, apparently for the sheer pleasure of seeing a rare, faint blush on the archer's ears and neck. Finally his quirked smile broadened to a full, toothy grin. “Then by all means, Clint, you should feel free to keep calling me 'Doc' if you want to.” As the archer's shoulders relaxed down from their defensive posture, he slyly added, “...as long as you're clear that I'm not _actually_ a pet,” and was gifted with a renewed reddening of Clint's ears.

“So... DOC,” Clint asked with mock disgruntlement as he plucked the last arrow and sent the target back to the far end of the range. “Did you come down here to talk math? Or to set me straight on my figures of speech?” 

Bruce suddenly looked a little abashed. “Actually, I wanted to ask a favor.” 

Clint knew the dangers of agreeing to unspecified favors for Natasha – and a whole different set of hazards with Tony – but he couldn't picture Bruce taking advantage that way. He wouldn't actually _mind_ him taking advantage, in some ways. “Sure thing, Doc. What's the story?”

Bruce was clearly nervous, eyes downcast, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The contrast to the laughing and teasing of a minute ago was remarkable. “I've... watched you shooting. A few times. And... I noticed. That when you're shooting, you seem. Calm.”

“Yeah, I really have to get in the zone in order to make tricky shots. It kinda goes both ways, where I get calm in order to shoot, but also shooting – for fun – makes me really calm and peaceful.” Clint raised one brow in a question. “Aren't you, like, the Zen master of the Avengers?”

That, at least, elicited a little laugh, and Bruce seemed to relax a bit. “I suppose, in a way... but I'm always looking for more and better meditation methods, and ways to lower my heart rate.” He looked up at Clint with his head still ducked (Clint was suddenly caught by how dark the other man's eyelashes were; the total effect was very sexy, and he had to give himself a mental kick) and asked, “Could you teach me to shoot?”

“Uh.” Clint was still trying to get his balance from the unexpected visual. “Teach you? Meditation?”

“Teach me shooting, which I hope will be meditative, as it appears to be for you.”

“I... yes. Sure.” Clint was firmly _not_ thinking about the implications of spending a lot of time putting his arms around Bruce to help him learn. This was either going to get him past his months-long mild crush on the Doc, or kick it into high gear. HA HA HA, no really, high gear here we come. Clint shook himself mentally, and started estimating draw weight, and bow height, and target distance. “When do you want to start?”


	2. Chapter 2

The next day found them on the range again, ready to test Clint's nerves. The process of getting Bruce fitted for a bow, with JARVIS' help with the measuring (Clint didn't even know why Tony had all that shit in the Tower), had eaten up their remaining time the previous day, but also helped restore Clint's shaken equilibrium. 

This was going to be the first 'hands-on' session. Clint gave himself negative three points for thinking the words 'hands-on,' and started to work on Bruce's stance. “Okay, see how my feet are positioned? Good, now look at the angle my hips are at, and then the angle of my shoulders relative to my feet.”

Bruce seemed to be looking at Clint's hips, then legs, then at his shoulders, then back to his hips, but then ducked his head tightly. He fumbled with the bow in his hands. “I'm certain I'm not holding this right.” His torso was overly twisted, and his shoulders were curved inward as he peered at the bow.

“Doc, don't worry about the bow just yet. We gotta get your body into a good position first.” Clint felt his ears warm at his phrasing, and deducted another five points from his mental tally of how he was dealing with this crush. Seeing that Bruce was definitely not going to copy his pose successfully, he steeled himself and went to help out. 

“Okay, the feet are good. Very... mathematically correct.” Clint's words startled what sounded like a giggle out of Bruce, and Clint preened behind his back for a moment. Points off for flirting? Or should he _receive_ points for _successful_ flirting? On to the hard part. “Now your hips don't need to twist so far – you should be comfortable. Isn't that kind of a rule for most kinds of meditation?” Clint gingerly put his fingertips high on Bruce's hips, and exerted the minimum pressure necessary to guide him into a more neutral stance. Plus ten points for not getting grabby... and minus ten points for even thinking about it.

“Your shoulders should be straight and level.” He tried to use the same tapping pressure that he had on the hips, but Bruce wasn't getting it. After trying to poke and prod him into shape (minus three), he gave up and curled his fingers around the doctor's substantial shoulders. He had known that Bruce had nicer shoulders than his baggy clothes would suggest, but the draw weight JARVIS had assigned had still been surprisingly high. Now, feeling the curve of the muscles under his hands, Clint could really believe that number.

Bruce flexed his shoulders against Clint's fingers, not in such a way as to brush him off, but seemingly to get more comfortable. “What am I doing wrong here, Clint? It doesn't feel natural to hold my shoulders as far back as you're telling me I should.” He worked them again, making the muscles under Clint's thumbs bunch and loosen, bunch and loosen, bunch and... negative fifteen points! 

Clint dug his thumbs in a little bit, pulling back with his fingers, and Bruce made a funny little noise and then relaxed into the new position all at once. Aaaaaand that was negative _fifty,_ right there. Clint found himself babbling. “As much reading as you do, and hunching over computers, you've got to stretch yourself out some. You need to take frequent breaks and roll your head back, bring your shoulder blades together and down, stretch your arms out.” Bruce was doing what he said even as he spoke, but Clint found that for some reason his hands were staying on those broad shoulders even as they flexed and rolled. He had completely lost count of his score by now, and was _so_ not caring.

“Mmmm... that does feel better. You know, the one form of meditation I never have really gotten into is yoga,” Bruce said as he continued working his arms and shoulders out, “but I could certainly stand to improve my flexibility.” Just as Clint's brain was about to recover from that stumble, Bruce added, “You seem amazingly flexible. What's your method?”

Through sheer force of will, Clint got his brain back on-line, and removed his hands from Bruce's shoulders. “I... have a whole regimen. From S.H.I.E.L.D. That I do. Most days.” He took one, then two steps back and to the side, picking up his own bow. “Now let's work on how you hold the bow, okay?”

“Okay,” said Bruce, as if nothing at all disconcerting had just been happening, and they spent the next half hour working on holding the bow and drawing without releasing, deciding at that point to take a break and let Bruce try shooting an actual arrow the following day. 

Clint escaped from the range as quickly as he could, after hurriedly demonstrating how to unstring and store the bows. Usually he took more time to care for the equipment, but... it was time to _care_ for his _equipment._ As he locked himself into his quarters, he grimly gave himself negative one thousand points for giving into temptation, and negative five more for terrible puns.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint strode into the range where Bruce was waiting. “Okay!” he said, clapping his hands together. “Today let's get your arm guards and gear on! And see you maintain your stance while releasing the string! And then we'll work on nocking! And _then_ – you'll shoot an arrow!! You'll shoot ALL the arrows!!!”

Bruce's brow furrowed ~~adorably~~. “Are you all right, Clint?”

“Never better! Let's get this show on the road!” Clint bustled around gathering up gear, not meeting Bruce's eye. He managed to get all his own and the doctor's accoutrements on, while chatting manically, without ever looking directly at his friend. He ignored the fact that Bruce was not really chatting back. Willpower and denial were going to get him through this, yes they were!

“Alrighty!” Clint thumbed the controls, bringing the target far closer than it normally was. “Take your stance!” Internally, he praised himself for not saying, 'Assume the position!' He watched as Bruce did, indeed, assume the position – he had it almost perfect today, only needing a nudge here and there. His gorgeous shoulders were relaxed, straight and level without a reminder from Clint. Bruce raised the bow, drew it, and...

“OW!” Bruce apparently hadn't listened to the part about the bowstring smarting, even through the gear. Clint was snapped out of his not-dealing-with-it mania for the first time that day, both by sympathy for Bruce and by a _tiny_ bit of worry – just how much pain did it take to bring out Hulk, anyway?

Now that he was finally looking at Bruce, he saw just a slight grimace of pain, quickly wiped away by a sheepish smile. “You warned me about that, but I guess I wasn't ready for it, huh?” He ducked his head and grinned, looking up at Clint through his lashes in exactly the way that had started this whole mess. Clint looked away quickly.

“You get used to it pretty quick. Wouldn't be too calming if you didn't, right? You build up calluses, kind of.” Clint picked up his own bow, for something to do with his hands other than what he badly wanted to do, which was touch and soothe Bruce's arm. “Here, let's try again, okay?”

After twenty minutes or so of draw-and-release, they practiced nocking arrows, which Bruce picked up very fast. “Fine motor skills are more my thing than large motor, I think.” He was smiling when he said it, and Clint could hear the teasing tone to his voice, so he was pretty sure the doctor was enjoying himself. He quashed his immediate thoughts about manual dexterity and broad, strong hands, and nodded in agreement.

“Ready for the best part, Doc?” Clint pointed at the target. “Let's see if you can get anywhere near it. If not, don't worry – you'll get better fast, I promise!”

“I trust you,” said Bruce, with a smile that Clint tried not to over-analyze. Then he nocked the arrow, drew, released it... and it skidded to a stop just short of the target. The smile fell off Bruce's face, replaced by a hang-dog expression that made Clint want to do inappropriate things to soothe it away.

Keeping it entirely appropriate at all times, Clint guided Bruce through several more shots which were not more _successful,_ exactly, but maybe... less unsuccessful? In any case, by the end of another hour, Bruce had managed to hit some part of the target three times, and had cheered up somewhat. The doctor's hands were starting to shake, however, and Clint realized that it was time to call a halt for lunch.

After a short lunch together, and a long invented errand away from Bruce, maybe he would feel ready to come back and give more instruction. He knew that to get Bruce shooting more accurately and smoothly, he would have to give him more physical guidance. Clint left the communal kitchen by the hallway toward the elevator to the street level, but quickly cut through the vent system to get to his own quarters. He really did intend just to meditate (that is, nap), but his hyperactive energy from that morning was still surging through him... along with vivid memories that made it impossible not to think about Bruce. Giving himself another negative one thousand and five points, he... _didn't meditate..._ with the doctor's wry half-smile in his mind.

Returning to the range at 3:00, freshly showered, he found Bruce fumbling with the protective gear. He had managed to put it all on correctly, but was having trouble tightening it. “Clint! Perfect timing. Can you give me a hand?” The welcoming half-smile, familiar from his fantasies, made Clint glad he had just given _himself_ a hand (still losing points for bad sex puns, Barton). 

Once Bruce's guards were on properly, he picked up the bow and stepped into position. Clint braced himself, then stepped up behind him. “If you don't mind, I think I can help with your targeting. May I?” Upon receiving a nod, he stepped even closer, bringing his arms up closely underneath each of the doctor's. He didn't trust himself to nestle his head alongside Bruce's, and that wouldn't give him a good line of sight anyway, so Clint stayed as far behind as he could, giving him a monocular but decent sight line. He concentrated on keeping his touches light, using them only to nudge the other man's arms and hands into position.

With Clint helping him align himself so precisely, Bruce hit the target five times out of the first eight tries. On the last of those, he made it within an inch of the center ring. They both whooped with glee, and Bruce was practically vibrating with excitement as Clint eased back and away from him. Bruce briefly looked dismayed, then resolute. 

“Well done, Doc. Now let's see you do it again, yeah?” Clint watched as Bruce rolled his shoulders back a couple of times and retook his stance. He seemed to tense up, then consciously attempt to relax into the correct position. He nocked and drew; he breathed in – out – and let the arrow fly. It weakly hit the outer ring of the target, nearly bouncing off of it altogether. Clint watched expressions chase each other across Bruce's face; he finally seemed to settle on amusement. That amusement became less and less certain with every subsequent shot, most of which landed on the floor again.

“Not ready for the Olympics yet,” Bruce quipped, but Clint was sure he could hear the disappointment underlying the joke. He studied Bruce's stance as he lined up another shot, and narrowed his eyes at the way the doctor's shoulders had climbed up toward his ears. Without thinking, he stepped forward and put one hand on a shoulder, and the other on the back of Bruce's head.

“Doc, you're going in the opposite direction of 'relaxed,' here – you gotta loosen up again.” Clint applied a bit of pressure, relieved when Bruce's shoulders dropped down and back easily. His head and neck, however, stayed tense and strained. “Try to keep your head directly over your spine, and relaxed. Imagine it's easily balancing on the top of your backbone.” 

Clint's hand moved lower on the back of Bruce's skull, easily spanning it, and massaging gently just behind each ear with his thumb and little finger. He was entirely caught up in how soft the greying curls felt beneath his fingers, and only snapped out of his daze when Bruce made an odd, strangled noise and jerked away from him. 

“Oh, hey, sorry – I should have ask-”

Bruce cut him off. “My arms are tired,” he said abruptly. “Let's call it a day.” Without looking around at Clint, he set his bow aside without unstringing it, and left the range in such a hurry that he didn't even take off his arm guards. Bewildered and guilty, Clint stood for another minute, then cleaned and put away both bows properly while going over and over in his mind what he could have done wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Clint didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't a sheepish Bruce standing on the doorstep of his Tower suite, bearing bagels in one hand and his protective gear in the other. “I'm sorry about yesterday,” he said before the archer could get a word out. “That was rude of me to rush off like that.” 

Stepping aside in implicit invitation, Clint scratched his crazy morning hair and studied the floor as Bruce came in. “S'okay, Doc – I'm sorry for manhandling you. I figured I pulled your hair or something.” He felt his ears growing hot with embarrassment at his own word choice, and was glad Bruce had his back to him, setting the bagels on the counter of the kitchenette. Was it his imagination, or were the doc's ears a bit pink as well?

“Ah, no... no, you didn't hurt me. Just hit a nerve or something.” As he checked Clint's cabinets for plates, Bruce's tense posture bore out his next words – “My neck's just very tight, is all.” Clint watched as cream cheese, smoked salmon, a plastic tub of diced onions, and a jar of little green things came out of the bag after the bagels. Bruce was making quite a production of unpacking and arranging the food, and hadn't met his eyes yet.

Giving the fidgeting man plenty of space, Clint came around and set out a knife and cutting board. He bent his attention to the coffeepot, which (god bless Tony Stark) had brewed automatically when he got out of bed for the day. “Well,” he started, then hesitated. “Well, would you like me to, um, work on it? Bruce looked at him for the first time, brown eyes wide and startled, then immediately away again. “I mean, not if you... I could... um, do you want...?” He looked morosely at the bread knife he had chosen for the bagels. Serrated and flat-tipped, it was no good at all for stabbing oneself through the head. Maybe he could drown himself with coffee?

“If.” Clint wasn't really sure whether Bruce had mumbled or cleared his throat, but then he started again. “If you wouldn't mind. That would be. Yeah.” Despite what he had just seemed to say, however, the scientist was apparently giving his complete attention to preparing a complex, multi-layered bagel experiment, and showed no signs of wanting a neck massage just then.

Clint decided that breakfast was the better part of valor. He managed to slice a bagel without hurting himself (hey, knives are more Tasha's thing, okay?), spread it with cheese and loaded lots of salmon on it. After looking dubiously at the onions, he sprinkled a scant few on top. He sniffed the tiny green things, then jerked his head back quickly. Um, **NO.** A quick check – was Doc laughing at him? No, he didn't seem to have noticed Clint's reaction, he was looking at the ceiling for some reason. Good, time to eat. He sat down across from Bruce, then immediately sprang back up. “Coffee! ...I mean, tea? Orange juice? No, wait, there's no juice... or tea, fuck. Um. Water?” 

“Water is fine, thanks.” Hey, there was that little half-smile again – and all Clint had to do for it was act like a complete dork. But the tension seemed to be broken, and Bruce looked a lot more relaxed, so that totally counted as a win. After they'd munched in companionable silence for quite a while, Bruce asked, _almost_ casually, “What's in today's lesson?” 

“Well, we've about covered the basics for stationary target shooting, which is what you said you thought would be good for meditation.” Clint ran his hand back through his hair again, realizing as he did so just how bad he must look after a night of restless sleep, and no shower. As his epic bed-head came to the forefront of his thoughts, he cringed. “Let me, um, clean this up and grab a shower, and then I'll meet you on the range for some more practice, okay? The better your form, the better your aim, and the less you need to concentrate on what you're doing all the time.”

Bruce opened, then closed his mouth. He shifted in his seat as if to rise, but didn't get up. He was avoiding Clint's eyes again. “I'll pick up the food and wash the dishes. I brought this breakfast as an apology, so let me take care of it. You go... do whatever.” For some reason he looked slightly pink. Over Clint's halfhearted protests, Bruce shooed him away and began collecting things from the table.

Retreating to his bathroom, Clint groaned quietly in frustration. There was no way he could do anything but simply shower with Bruce right there in the apartment – talk about your negative points! So he was going to have to go to the range and focus on the other man's _form_ without any relief at all. He grimaced as he turned the water temperature to cold.


	5. Chapter 5

A very short while later, the two of them stood on the range, strapping on arm and finger guards. Bruce had seemed relaxed at first, but the closer he got to actually shooting, the tenser he seemed. Nevertheless, he took the bow Clint handed him, and struck his stance. “Good, good... your feet and hips are just right.” Clint circled him with a critical eye. “Your shoulders could drop some... good, and your elbows... perfect.” Now the hard part. “Do you remember what I said about your head balancing loosely on your spine?”

Bruce nodded, but the very jerkiness of it showed Clint how tense his friend's neck must still be. Out of sight, he frowned to himself – how to get past this point? Coming back to the front, he had Bruce put down the bow, then talked him through a series of neck exercises and general relaxation techniques. Show and tell, don't touch, would be Clint's motto from now on, he vowed. Yet every time it seemed to be working, Bruce would pick up the bow – and Clint would watch as his neck clenched up again.

Just as Clint was trying to think of a tactful way to suggest quitting for the day after only an hour, Bruce spoke up, eyes downcast. “You said you might. That you. You wouldn't mind, um. Working on... my neck?” The last few words were faint but clear, and Bruce flicked his eyes up to meet Clint's briefly. Caught by surprise, Clint just nodded, then cleared his throat.

“Yeah, of course. Sure.” He glanced around the end of the range where they stood. Behind them, as you might expect in a Stark facility, was an expensive-looking sofa that was guaranteed to be uncomfortable. At right angles to that, however, as you might expect in one of Tony's 'team' spaces, was a grease-stained, beat-up old loveseat with garish upholstery, which Clint had napped on many a time. Bruce followed him over there, and hesitantly sat where he indicated. 

By the time they got to the loveseat, Clint had already considered – and rejected – several ways to do this. Having Bruce sit on the floor would keep him from getting the full benefit of the massage, and sitting sideways wouldn't do either of their backs any favors. He could perch on the back of the couch and have Bruce lean back between his knees... aaaaand that would _not_ be relaxing for _Clint._ No, the only way he could figure out to make this work was to have Bruce sit on the couch and lean back, while Clint stood safely behind the couch, with the back as a thick barrier between them. He maneuvered them into position and started to put his hands on the doctor's shoulders. 

“It's, um. It's the base of my neck that's bothering me, really,” Bruce said quickly. “Down at the bottom, really low, _quite_ low, right where it meets my shoulders." He sounded more nervous than usual. "I probably, I probably look at the computer screen too much or, or something.” Clint was focusing on keeping his touch as clinical as possible, and didn't pay too much attention to what was being said. He felt out knots one after another, and used the techniques Tasha had taught him (not like _that,_ jeez) to relax each one and the muscles surrounding it. He kept finding more and more, smaller and smaller, tense spots, and the shoulders and neck under his hands felt different already. 

He was working his way upward on autopilot, and Bruce was melting under his hands (keep it professional, Clint!), when he moved up directly behind the corners of the jaw, and from there to behind the ears. All at once, Bruce _surged_ forward out of his hands, uttering a noise halfway between a yelp and a growl, leaving Clint clutching at nothing and pressing his hips into the back of the sofa harder than he really should be. “I'll! be back! right back!” Bruce said, in a strange voice, then raced out of the room without turning around. 

Clint was too glad that Bruce didn't see his flushed face to bother spending much time wondering what happened. He had an urgent need to use the facilities, himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is currently the last full chapter which I have completed and edited, but I #amwriting these days!


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Clint had had plenty of time to go over the whole sequence of events – obsessively, even. While he was no scientist himself, he was perfectly capable of forming a hypothesis and testing it. Therefore, when Bruce opened his door to his suite at six a.m., he found Clint standing there with a bakery bag in one hand, and his coffee carafe in the other. The carafe was only one third full, and Clint took yet another swig from it while waiting for Bruce to stop gaping and greet him. “Would you... like to come in?” Clint smiled and strolled in with more confidence than he actually felt. 

“Thanks, Doc. I brought breakfast to pay you back for yesterday's. I brought my own coffee, though – I know you don't drink the stuff.” Bruce cracked a little smile at that, and then a bigger one when he opened the bag to find an assortment of muffins. “Didn't know what kind you'd want, so I got a bunch. Should I have brought those little green things back over to go with 'em?” Bruce looked up, startled into laughing at the smirk on Clint's face. Still chuckling, he turned away to get out plates and brew some tea.

When he turned back around, Bruce jumped at how close the other man was standing. “I wanted to check something out with you,” Clint said. At Bruce's slow nod, he went on, “I was thinking about how your shoulders get tense...” The _(very nice)_ shoulders in question drew up at the mere words. “I'd like to try a different method for relaxing your neck and shoulders, see if that improves your aim.” 

Bruce did not noticeably unclench at this suggestion. “What did you have in mind?” He didn't look so much suspicious as... bewildered, so Clint took that as a positive sign, and forged ahead.

“I was thinking, I read something about positive feedback and changing habits and stuff like that.” Encouraged by the tilt of Bruce's head, he went on, “Every time you're headed in the right direction, I'll give you positive reinforcement! But when you tense up,” _like now,_ he thought, “I'll back off and just not encourage it.” 

Bruce was looking more curious than skeptical at this point, and started pouring his tea. “What kind of reinforcement did you have in mind? I'm not much for candy.”

Clint's slightly manic grin would have given the game away had Bruce been looking up at that moment. As it was – “Kisses!” made him pour hot tea all over the counter and jump back with an exclamation. Clint crowded forward immediately, grabbing a dishtowel from over the sink. “Are you okay?!? Did you burn yourself??”

Grabbing the towel, Bruce retreated into a corner of the kitchen, holding his hands up and his head down. “I'm FINE. Give me a second.” Clint backed off, looking guilty and feeling even worse. After dabbing at his (dry) shirt for a minute, Bruce mumbled without looking up, “What kind of joke is that supposed to be?

“Not a joke!” was the quick response. Clint found himself rubbing the back of his head, a sure tell, and made himself stop. He tried to project at least a _little_ of the confidence he'd felt just half an hour earlier. “I really like you, Doc... Bruce... and I thought you might like me too. If I'm wrong, I'll be embarrassed, but disappointment is worse than embarrassment, so I thought I'd give it a shot. And we both know I'm a good shot!” He finished up with an exaggerated wink that was completely wasted, as Bruce was still staring at the dishtowel he was wringing in his hands. 

Finally Bruce looked up, but only for seconds at a time before jerking his head back down, then peeking again, repeatedly. “Of... of course I like you,” he said, almost inaudibly. “I enjoy your company immensely.” He was turning a somewhat alarming color, but it was on the red spectrum instead of green, so Clint wasn't seriously worried. 

He ducked down to try to catch Bruce's eyes. “I think you know that's not what I meant. I enjoy spending time with you, too – but I'd like to spend lots more time with you, doing _lots_ more things.” Encouraged by Bruce's expression, which was looking less terrified and more intrigued, he went on, “I'll keep teaching you to shoot either way, but I do think you'd improve your aim if you let me help you relax with another massage... and some kisses to reward good shots.”

It was quite clear when Bruce's internal struggle ended favorably. Even before he spoke, his expression and body language made Clint sigh in relief. “Yes! I mean, I'd like that. The... spending time thing and. And the, the kissing. That. Very much!” The blushing and babbling made Clint want to grab and squeeze him, but he decided not to push his luck.

Instead, he _super_ suavely pulled out a chair and ushered Bruce into it, still uttering broken phrases which sounded like music to Clint's ears. Before sitting down, he gave Bruce his best cheesy grin, saying, “Last call for tiny green smelly things, Doc – I can still run get 'em!” Having gotten the desired effect, which was a calmed down Bruce huffing a small laugh at him, Clint sat down to join him for breakfast.


	7. Chapter 7

Clint purposely kept the breakfast conversation lighthearted, and he thought that Bruce seemed relieved by the reprieve from any fraught subjects. That's why he was taken by surprise when, while washing dishes while Clint dried, Bruce (apparently nonchalantly) said, “I owe you a massage, you know.” Only the redness at the tips of his ears indicated that it had been anything other than a casual statement.

“Oh! I, uh, wouldn't say no to that, some time,” Clint stammered out, only to realize that Bruce had dried his hands already and was gesturing toward the living room. In a daze, imagination already churning, Clint headed in there and looked helplessly at the large, batik-printed, structured floor cushions with which Bruce had furnished his apartment upon finally agreeing to stay in Stark tower. “Where should I...”

Still offhandedly, Bruce asserted, “I do my best work lying down –” then immediately spoiled his own casual effect by blushing furiously and wringing his hands. “– I mean, that is – with _you_ lying down – I mean –” He seemed relieved when Clint took the initiative, pushing three pillows together and flinging himself down with a grin. Bruce regained his composure, even going so far as to suggest, “Would you like oil? I have some nice, mild sandalwood which reminds me of India.” 

Clint agreed enthusiastically, pushing his torso up to yank his shirt off. He lay back down, heart racing, as Bruce padded off to make rummaging sounds in another room – _probably his bedroom_ – and returned with a bottle and a towel, which he apologetically had Clint shift up again to place under him. As Bruce settled down on his left, he turned his face to the right, afraid of what might show on it once he finally had Bruce's hands on him.

Clint had sort of expected the first touches to be tentative, so it was a pleasant surprise _(VERY pleasant)_ to feel Bruce reach over him and give firm initial sweeps down each side of his spine. Every stroke after than seemed to go right over places that he hadn't even known were bothering him, and make them feel better. The oil that Bruce had been rubbing in his hands was warm, and had a delicate scent, and Clint felt certain that if he were able to think of it as just another massage, it would be one of the most relaxing he had ever received. 

But this wasn't just any massage... this was Bruce, and there was no way Clint could relax completely. In fact, ten minutes in, he was feeling decidedly _un_ relaxed – at least part of him. Twenty minutes in, he was trying to plot his escape from Bruce's apartment without embarrassing himself and shocking Bruce, and the impossibility of the prospect had started undoing the good work Bruce had done on his back and neck. 

With a sigh, and a chorus of pops from his knees and back, Bruce sat back on his heels, leaving a hand on the small of Clint's back. “You don't seem to be getting any more relaxed here, and leaning over from the side is making it hard for me to really work your shoulders. Plus, my knees are bothering me.” Bruce had started out sounding apologetic, but now Clint heard a note of persuasion in his voice. “How would you feel about me straddling your... um, hips? The cushions are wide enough, and it would give me much better leverage.” 

Clint groaned internally, and was frantically thinking up excuses that would get him out of the room – but, crucially, get Bruce out _first_ (maybe shoot out the lights? Damn, no bow) – when he realized that Bruce was still talking. “If I'm kneeling over you, I'd be able to reach both of your arms, and then back up to do your legs if – if you want, and your, um... glutes look very tight.” This, apparently, was the absolute limit of Bruce's attempt at smooth talk, because the stammering took over full force. “I don't mean they _look_ tight as in I've been _looking,_ but... just looking at them – I mean they just seem like they would _feel_ very – I mean I haven't _felt_ them but... I would if you...” Bruce trailed off into a low groan that was probably despair but sounded incredibly sexy to Clint. 

Then the hand on Clint's back withdrew, and he heard more popping of joints, and he suddenly realized that Bruce might have been hoping for a response at some point while Clint was just lying there panicking. “Wait, yes!” he yelped, pushing himself up partway before remembering why he wasn't getting up. He whipped his head to the left _(ow)_ to see Bruce in almost full retreat. “Yes, please! Don't go, please come back and sit on my butt! I'd love for you to do that – any of that stuff you just said! Including the looking and the feeling,” he finished in a mumble. 

Bruce had stopped and turned around as soon as Clint started speaking, and the relieved smile on his face turned further and further into an uncharacteristic smirk. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” he purred. Clint's eyes widened at that expression and tone. What had he gotten them into? Was this about to move a lot faster than he had intended? He hadn't wanted to rush the Doc, but maybe that wasn't a problem... 

But Bruce proceeded to settle himself chastely, low in the small of Clint's back but definitely not low enough to be considered the butt, and re-oil his hands in a matter-of-fact way. Then he continued the massage – which really _was_ better from that angle – but not in a sexy way. Well, who was Clint kidding... it was definitely sexy, but not, like, sexier than before. Actually, it kind of _was_ sexier than before, because now he knew Bruce had been looking at his butt, but the actual massage was even more amazing than before, in a non-sexy way. Sex.sexier.sexysex _sex_... Clint was losing his mind, and Bruce was as cool as a cucumber.


	8. Chapter 8

Then a miracle happened – Bruce got as far down as he could with his own thighs in the way, and finally decided to shift further down Clint's body. He started by sliding, but quickly seemed to realize that Clint's sweatpants were going to go with him, so he knelt up and knee-walked backward a bit, and resettled... on Clint's upper thighs. Damn. Bruce was determined not to sit on his butt, huh? Maybe if he asked again, more nicely? Any time after those magic hands were done with the small of his back, mmmmm.

Since Bruce was behind him now anyway, there was no reason to keep his head turned either to the left or the right, so Clint decided to try bringing his arms up and resting his forehead on his arms. This would have felt great, except that the crick from having his face turned right for so long was now a crick on the other side. He wiggled his neck a bit and hunched his shoulders, trying to work it out. Of course Bruce noticed. “Neck bothering you? I'm sorry, I should have made you a face rest from a towel roll. Here, let me work it out for you.”

As Bruce, seated on Clint's thighs, leaned waaaay forward to reach his neck, Clint came to the very sudden realization that Bruce was _just_ as affected by this massage as he was. Immediately thereafter, Bruce apparently figured out that Clint could figure that out, because he quickly leaned back and started apologizing profusely. “Don't stop!” Clint pleaded. “My neck still hurts... and you're so nice and, um, warm along my back.” 

_“Warm,_ really? That's the sensation you're getting from that?” But despite the teasing note in his voice, Bruce did lean forward and continue his work on Clint's neck. In fact, he relaxed onto Clint more and more as he worked, resting his (very comfortable) weight on him, and noticeably increasing the pressure in one specific area (Clint's butt. Bruce was hard against his butt, and he _loved_ it. Clint felt that his butt had never been so happy.).

“Hey Doc,” he said, dreamy with satisfaction with his lot in life, “I think you were right about my glutes being tight. Do you think you could do something about that?” The convulsive grip Bruce's hands gave at that request made Clint wriggle in anticipation, as Bruce slowly sat up and slid his hands down Clint's sides to rest at his waistband.

“Of course, I'd be happy to,” Bruce said, almost calmly. “Did you want me to... use oil?”

_“Oh_ yeah, I think oil is definitely what's called for here, don't you? If you really want to loosen me up, that is.”

Bruce's fingers clenched again, but this time they retained their grip on Clint's pants, and stripped them off of him with alacrity. Clint felt Bruce resettle himself on the pillows, but much lower down Clint's legs than he was expecting. Then came the noise of the oil bottle, and firm hands stroking upwards from his calves. As good as it felt to have his legs massaged, Clint was a little disappointed, as he had thought they were skipping ahead to the less _therapeutic_ part of the program.

As the massage continued, however, Clint realized that it was definitely moving faster and more purposefully than previously. Bruce's hands were moving further upward with every stroke, and his thumbs were now strongly working the insides of Clint's thighs, while his fingers firmly caressed the crease between thighs and buttocks. It also felt as though he were using quite a bit more oil than before.

Sighing with anticipation, Clint spread his ankles as far apart as Bruce's knees would allow. Those clever thumbs moved inward and upward without missing a beat, spreading both oil and bliss on his perineum while Bruce's fingers spread out across Clint's whole ass and _squeezed_. With a heartfelt groan, Clint turned his (pain-free!) neck far enough to look Bruce in the eye and beg, _“Please_ tell me you're planning to fuck me!”

Bruce looked anything but shy now, as he kept rubbing and squeezing, so skillfully that Clint couldn't keep from humping the cushions a bit. “If that's what you want, we're in luck – I use nitrile condoms that can withstand the oil. I'll go get them... in a little while.” In response to Clint's (manly) whimper, he just gave the sexiest smirk Clint had seen on him yet. “You're not in a hurry, are you? You can't rush a massage.”

Over the next few... eternity, Clint moaned helplessly as Bruce continued to work his glutes while simultaneously working oil further and further inward with his thumbs. It wasn't until Clint heard a groan that he dimly discerned came from Bruce instead of himself that he consciously realized that Bruce was actually stretching him open with both thumbs, and that the steady squeezing of his ass had stopped. 

“You don't even know... ohhh, what you look like right now, spread open for me,” Bruce panted. He started to stagger to his feet, then paused. “How flexible are you? Do you want to face me?” At Clint's enthusiastic assent, he caressed his ass one more time, then patted it. “Turn over; I'll be _right back_.” Clint could hear clothes hitting the floor before Bruce even got to the bedroom, then drawers being ransacked.

Clint was on his back in time to watch Bruce return, splendidly naked and hard, and waving an unfamiliar brand of condom box triumphantly. The confidence looked wonderful on him, and if it wavered for a moment, it quickly returned when Clint opened his arms and legs in welcome. “Bring it on, Doc – I want everything you've got to give me!”

It seemed that the time for teasing was over; Bruce was suited up quickly and then sinking in slowly before Clint had to ask twice. Face-to-face was a good choice – Clint loved the expressions crossing Bruce's face, and it seemed as if Bruce could tell how fast or slow to go just from watching Clint. During the slow parts, they got to do some of the promised kissing, which was exactly as fantastic as Clint had imagined. 

Even when they were moving hard and fast, they seemed to move in perfect, wordless concert with each other. Clint supposed it wasn't surprising that a spy and a guy so in tune with himself would both be really good at reading face and body language. And maybe... maybe it said something about the two of them together? Let's try not to get ahead of ourselves, Clint...

And then it was too hard to think at all, and Clint found himself clutching at Bruce's shoulders as if he were about to be swept away physically instead of sensually in his building orgasm. His hands crept upward into Bruce's hair, his fingers stroked behind Bruce's ears, and – “OH _GOD”_ Bruce howled, convulsed, shuddered, growled, as the hot throbbing of his orgasm set Clint off in turn.


End file.
